Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Ella
I would’ve thought the green room at Red Letter would be bigger and better for such a popular venue, but instead it’s cramped, with a loveseat that could seat three if the occupants get extra cozy, and four folding chairs that are stored against the wall when not in use, so as to save the approximate three square feet of floor space.
The walls bear weird-ass motivational posters that I’d expect to see in a mid-level corporate break room.
“Attitude begins with A but it starts with You,” that kind of shit.
Cramped? Yes. Dim? Yes. Tacky? Very. But to me—it’s heaven. Red Letter doesn’t allow nobodies to climb onto their stage…yet here I am.
I sip from a cup of lukewarm tea. A plate of sliced apples sits on the teensy side table next to the loveseat.
Faint bass thuds through the walls—the always-on background music that plays when artists aren’t performing. It reminds me of a heartbeat. I rest a hand against my lower stomach.
“Do you have to hurl?” Helena asks from her folding chair, nudging a wastebasket toward me.
I laugh a little. “No.”
“It’s okay if you do. And better now before you go out there. I just don’t want it on my shoes, okay? These are my lucky Louboutins.”
“They’re very pretty,” I say, looking at her heels. Black at the front, which fades to red at the back. “I’ll do my best to keep them vomit-free.”
“I appreciate it,” she says.
Consciously, I keep my hand away from my middle.
There’s no baby there. I used several tests this morning.
I didn’t think I could really be pregnant, but ever since talking to Gianna, my brain wouldn’t stop.
Having those concerns hanging over my head while I was going on stage for the first time just seemed like too much. I had to be one hundred percent sure.
I smile to myself now. All that worry for nothing.
But how messed up is it that I’m…kind of disappointed? Imagine carrying a child who came from part me, and part Kingston or Sebastian. If the guys were on board with the whole endeavor, the baby would be so loved by all three of us.
“Fifteen minutes,” Helena says. “Are your guys out in the audience?”
“Yeah,” I say, checking my phone again. They texted when they arrived and said they had found a table fairly close to the stage. If I get too nervous, I’m going to sing just to them, they said. They offered to wait with me in the green room, but that would make me too nervous.
So here we are, my agent and me and my fetus-free uterus, sitting in the green room with a wastebasket between us and bass pumping through the walls.
“You have the card with your set list?” she asks.
I reach into my dress’s pocket—because yes, the dress I bought for tonight has pockets. “Right here,” I say.
“And you’re sure about the last one?”
I nod.
“Okay.” Her brown eyes show nothing but trust and belief. If she had doubts about the last song, she’s hid them well. “You look stunning, by the way, did I tell you that?”
“You did, but I don’t mind hearing it again,” I say with a smile.
I fiddle with the skirt portion of the dress.
The top fits like a bodice and is slate blue.
The black skirt flares out and ripples, concealing the pockets.
My shoes aren’t Louboutins or anything, but they’re cute—black Mary Janes that I’m wearing with sheer black ruffled socks.
It’s girly and sexy and feels so me . Kingston and Sebastian are going to lose their minds when they get me alone later.
A knock on the door. A deep voice from outside says, “Miss Marchand, it’s time.”
“You got this,” Helena says, giving me a thumb’s up.
I’m not worried , I want to say, but my throat is suddenly tight and my mouth is as dry as Death Valley. Did someone add sand to my tea? I take one last sip, trying to clear my throat.
I think it works until I follow the Red Letter crew member to the edge of the stage.
The owner of the club introduces me. There’s polite applause, and then somehow my feet are moving up the low steps, taking me to the piano where a mic is set up, and a system I can use to add percussion and other additional background because I’m not playing with a band.
Helena and I talked at length about where and how I would speak during the set. We decided that I’d launch right into a song, no nervous chit-chat beforehand. Which is good, because if I had anything to say right now, it would get swallowed up with my nerves.
My hands are shaking. Fuck. That can’t be good for my playing.
What if I forget all the lyrics?
Breathe, Ella .
It’s Sebastian’s and Kingston’s voices in my head at the same time.
Because of the real danger of being blinded by the stage lights, I’m afraid to look into the audience.
But I do it anyway. I can barely make out Kingston’s and Sebastian’s faces, but I see them there at a table near the front, just like they said.
They’re here. I’m here. I’m singing to them.
I sit down at the keyboard, place my hands on the keys.
A few opening chords.
I know this song. I wrote this song. I love this song.
I open my mouth and sing.
* * *
Sebastian
When Ella first steps on stage, she looks hesitant, a little nervous. People in the audience who don’t know her likely won’t pick up on it, but I tense up in empathy. I know that feeling of low-key stage fright.
Next to me, Kingston’s gripping his glass of whiskey, his gaze fast on Ella.
“She’s nervous,” he whispers.
“I think she’ll get over it once she starts,” I say.
After she sits down, carefully arranges her skirt around her legs, and takes a deep breath, she looks out to the audience. Her gaze stops searching when it lands on King and me. She can see us, good.
You got this, princess, I say in my head.
She plays the opening of her first song, just like we rehearsed. And when she begins to sing, she falters over the first lines, but quickly recovers. There’s my girl—scared, but doing the thing anyway. So fucking brave. I exchange a look with Kingston, see the pride in his eyes, as well.
Song after song, Ella impresses the shit out of the crowd. I’m tempted to sneak a peek at her VideYou channel, because I’m willing to bet her subscriber count is going up with every passing minute in this club.
After each song, the club erupts in applause.
Nothing polite about it—these are the sounds of a crowd that is captivated, completely under Cinderella’s spell.
I hope Helena’s warned her—there will be interview requests rolling in.
First from the followers of the local music scene, and expanding outward.
Everyone will want to be early to get the scoop.
The questions will range from general to intrusive.
Bright side: Ella has no intention of hiding that she has two boyfriends.
We’re going to be open from the start, avoid any scandals.
The fact one of her boyfriends is her ex’s father, well…
Joel was never truly her boyfriend, so he can’t really be her ex, can he?
We’re going to avoid talking about it, but if it comes out, so what?
She’s not worried, so I won’t be, either.
There is the matter of our ages, though.
Landen’s disgust still leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
Who the fuck cares what Landen thinks, right?
I try not to care, anyway.
“This is the last song of the evening,” Ella says into the microphone.
There are actual groans of disappointment from the audience.
“I’ve loved singing for you tonight,” she adds. “This next song is called ‘Locked,’ and it’s brand new.”
Locked ? I haven’t heard this one. I look over at Helena and she shrugs back at me. Did she know? She doesn’t look surprised. Maybe Ella retitled the song she planned on singing.
But the opening notes aren’t the same, either.
“That’s not on her set list,” I mutter, nudging Kingston.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, she’s gone off-script,” I whisper. “I haven’t even heard this song. Why would she do that?”
He shrugs. He’s not unconcerned, exactly, but he doesn’t fully appreciate the importance of rehearsal.
But maybe Ella has been rehearsing in secret, because she sounds fucking incredible.
I can’t believe I’ve never even heard this song. She must’ve been working on it in private.
I don’t care what they say
I don’t give a fuck what they say
I belong to you
The collar, the key, the click of the lock
Is louder than looks
Our love is stronger than stares
Our love is more generous than judgments
Our love endures envy
The collar, the key, the click of the lock
I’m yours
I’m yours
I’m yours
It’s for us. The song is her answer to my concern about our ages.
After she plays the last chord and thanks the audience, the entire club erupts into mad applause.
The audience loves her. I love her.
* * *
Kingston
Everyone jumps up, hoping to talk to Ella. I head toward the green room with Sebastian, but an insistent vibration in my jacket pocket makes me pause. A phone call, this late?
A quick glance at the screen shows me it’s Jaxon.
“I gotta take this,” I say to Bash.
He nods, but his eyes show concern. He knows I wouldn’t accept the call unless it was important.
Hurrying from the club to the relatively quieter city street, I accept the call and hold my other hand to my ear so I can hear better.
“Kingston here,” I say.
“Hey. We tried to call Ella,” Jaxon says, “but she’s not picking up.”
“She’s just finished singing,” I explain. “Kinda busy.”
“Right. Her guards said she’s just finished, but I imagine it’s crazy right now.
I won’t keep you. The thing is, we got another text demanding ransom.
We also traced her brother to a hotel in the Bellefleur district.
We found signs of foul play. I had to report it to the police, they’ll do more investigating, but you know how slowly they move on anything to do with Bellefleur. ”
“Fuck. Yeah, I know.” It’s the unfortunate truth.
“Kingston, look, there was…there was a lot of blood. Given the pictures they sent to Ella’s phone, I don’t know whether to believe he’s actually alive.”
“But you don’t know for sure yet that he’s dead?” I ask.
“I think it’s best you prepare Ella for some bad news. We’re still working on the case, though, and we won’t stop until we get definitive answers.”
Shit. Shit . “Okay, thanks for checking in.”
We hang up and I go back inside, my heart heavy. I don’t want to have to break this news to my girl, not tonight of all nights. We should be celebrating.
But I also can’t keep it from her.
When I come back to Bash’s and my table, Ella’s off the stage, and Bash isn’t anywhere in sight.
They’re probably in the green room. I frown at my phone, annoyed again that Jaxon interrupted this moment and crushed that I have to relay his message to Ella.
I glance around, searching for Helena or Sebastian.
I don’t have to look far, because Helena approaches me, gesturing me toward her.
“She can’t come out or she’ll be mobbed,” Helena says, beaming.
“It’s alarming to me that you look so delighted by that prospect,” I say.
“Your girl means dollar signs to me, of course I’m delighted,” she says. When I frown, she’s quick to add, “Don’t worry, Kingston, I protect my investments. She’s not getting trampled by any mobs. She’s in the green room and you can head back right now.”
I follow where she’s pointing. Sure enough, Cora, Terrence, and Squid are standing outside the door—extra security because of the event. They were situated at strategic points in the audience while Ella performed.
The bodyguards nod somberly at me when I approach, then step aside. I wonder if they’ve already learned what Ironwood learned. Probably. News would have to travel fast in their agency, in the name of keeping their clients safe.
Signs of foul play. Another ransom demand. Jaxon doesn’t have high hopes for Tommy.
Ella looks up when I enter, her expression jubilant. She should be happy—she rocked it in there. The energy in the club was incredible while she played.
But I have to take her down now, and fuck if it doesn’t kill me inside.
She takes one look at my face, which I’m sure must be grim, and her excitement and happiness fade. Her smile falters.
Fuck. I don’t want to be the one to tell her this.